Happy Birthday!
by Guinevere81
Summary: So it's my birthday today and while I was out walking and shopping and cooking my family dinner I got to thinking about what birthday celebrations might be like at 221B. This is the story that my twisted mind came up with. It will be a six chapter story of three years of birthdays with the themes of…. Getting it wrong…. Overcompensating… and getting it right.
1. John getting it wrong

So it's my birthday today and while I was out walking and shopping and cooking my family dinner I got to thinking about what birthday celebrations might be like at 221B. This is the story that my twisted mind came up with. It will be a six chapter story of three years of birthdays with the themes of…. Getting it wrong…. Overcompensating… and getting it right.

John getting it wrong.

John liked birthdays, he liked most celebrations. He liked preparing for the birthdays of others and he liked the attention his mother had showered him with on his own birthdays as a child. Hence when it came to Sherlock's birthday he was determined to show himself a worthy flatmate. Gathering Sherlock's friends was rather tricky since he didn't really seem to have any, or at least none that he ever spoke of or brought around, still John was determined that he would manage a celebration for his flatmate.

He asked Mycroft for advice and was told not to bother. 'Sherlock doesn't have birthday parties. He doesn't care about being celebrated.' Mycroft informed and John bristled. It was just like Mycroft to dismiss his brother's need to be shown that people cared about him.

So in the end Mycroft was not invited. Mrs Hudson was, as was Lestrade and Molly, all of whom were asked if they knew of anyone else they might invite. All of the detectives at the yard were ruled out but in the end Mrs Hudson brought Mrs Turner their neighbor and Molly suggested Mike Stamford one of the other pathologists, an older gentleman who apparently sometimes provided Sherlock with body parts as well as two of the medical research staff from Bart's whom she claimed were nice and tolerated Sherlock's eccentricities.

It made for a very small group but it was the best John could manage since he had only known Sherlock for five months and Sherlock had in that time not seen it fit to introduce John to particularly many people John might be willing to label as friends.

On the day in question Sherlock disappeared off to Bart's after a call from Molly to inform him that they had a particularly interesting case of poisoning that he might want to have a look at. She had been managing to keep the body back and refrigerated for nearly a week to provide John with an excuse to get Sherlock out of the flat.

John spent three frantic hours cleaning and covering the flat in streamers. He had almost bought a banner with 'Happy Birthday' on it but at the last minute had decided that this was almost certainly too much for Sherlock. Instead he covered the kitchen and coffee tables with an assortment of nibbles and drinks. There was beer and juice and even a bottle of decent whisky on the counter in the kitchen and bowls of crisps and popcorn as well as what he thought of as standard party food based on his mother's choices, pork pies, scotch eggs… cocktail sausages. It came off with the same comfortable homely air as his childhood parties but he wondered briefly if it would do the trick with Sherlock, there was a lot of food for someone who didn't like to eat. He particularly frowned at the large Victoria sponge and enormous plate of flapjacks that Mrs Hudson had managed to produce for him. She would probably be hurt if Sherlock didn't eat them and John had a sneaky suspicion that the food would work better to get the rest of the guests happy than to fill Sherlock's stomach.

By six o'clock all guests apart from Sherlock had arrived. A pretty display of token birthday presents were stacked next to the food and everyone seemed in a good mood. They were only waiting for the guest of honour who was taking his time.

By seven they were getting a bit restless but the mood was still high when they heard the door downstairs open and close and they all fell silent in pleased anticipation.

Sherlock burst through the door throwing his coat on the hook and yelled a quick 'John do we have clients?' as he turned and was faced with, well not exactly a room full of people but a larger group of bodies than had ever previously been gathered at 221B Baker street. 'Surprise.' Molly yelled and Lestrade strode up and clapped him on the back saying 'Happy Birthday mate.'

Sherlock flinched away from Lestrade's touch. Since when were they mates? Really what the hell was this? The flat looked ridiculous, like a children's party had accidentally migrated into it, well a children's party with alcohol. Then his face settled on the kitchen table where a very interesting experiment had been maturing for the past four days. His bottles and test tubes were gone, replaced with hideous looking food and cheap beer.

Sherlock glared at John who was grinning stupidly up at him. 'Do you like it?' his flatmate asked and anger surged in Sherlock's chest. 'Do I like it? John I don't even know half these people. Victoria sponge makes me feel sick. I doubt you have ever seen me eat over flavoured crisps or working class picnic food and… you ruined my experiment… ' He hissed at John who's face fell at the tirade. Then Sherlock turned around, stalked off to his bedroom and slammed the door.

John was left stunned all of the guests staring at him in confusion. 'We best go, leave you two alone.' Mrs Hudson finally said patting his arm supportingly and one after one the guests left leaving the flat empty of people but full of food and presents.

John sat at the table staring at the mess in front of him unsure of what to do. In the end he got a binbag and threw out all the food and decorations. He stuffed the alcohol away in a cupboard and rinsed out all the bowls and plates. He couldn't bring himself to throw out the gifts, people had gotten them for Sherlock because they cared after all. He left them in a pile on the kitchen counter where they would sit for a fourth night before Sherlock bothered to unwrap them.

He made Sherlock a cup of tea and went to confront the dragon in the den at the back of the flat. Knocking on Sherlock's door with the words 'They're all gone, I brought you tea.' He slowly opened it to reveal Sherlock sat on the bed with his fingers steepled under his chin surrounded by papers but seemingly staring off into space.

'I'm sorry I ruined your experiment, and I'm sorry about the party, I should have asked if you wanted one and not just planned it. Happy birthday.' John said as he handed him the tea.

Sherlock nodded slowly, 'They're gone?' he asked as he accepted the tea and smelled it but didn't drink it.

'Yes they're all gone. Do you want to come outside? Want to tell me about this poisoning case of Mollies? John asks and Sherlock smiles a bit. 'Be right there.' He answers and like that some semblance of normality has been reintroduced into the flat.

Sherlock sits for another half an hour on his bed trying to piece together what has just happened but it is frustratingly domestic, emotional and tangled and in the end he goes out into the living room to tell John about his discoveries from the day. Neither of them mention the party again, or the pile of presents on the counter.

However two weeks later Sherlock comes across them while looking for clean petri dishes and/or tea mugs and he opens them. They are surprisingly thoughtful. There is a recently published book on finger printing techniques from Lestrade. A shared present of a very nice and modern microscope from Molly, Mike and their two colleagues, a horridly itchy home knitted scarf from Mrs Hudson and a box of very sweet cookies from the lady next door whose name he can't at the moment remember. There is nothing from John and for a second Sherlock feels a bit surprised until he visualises the counter on the night of the disastrous party. There had been a present bag with a skull on tucked behind the box of cookies. It was gone now. He wondered for a second what John might have gotten him that he had then as swiftly withdrawn after Sherlock's outburst. Probably something hideous… and yet… he wishes he knew what it had been.


	2. Sherlock getting it wrong

Sherlock getting it wrong.

John had been probing Sherlock all week about making plans for Friday night and it was greatly annoying. They did not make plans. They always played things by ear and adapted their life after John's work and Sherlock's cases. It made absolutely no sense that John kept asking Sherlock if they shouldn't plan something for the Friday. Eventually however Sherlock relented and agreed that they could get a take away and even a film of John's choosing if he only promised that Sherlock could take breaks to check out the current experiment on the liquefaction of various compounds when mixed with lighter fluid.

John did look a little concerned at this proposition but since the experiment involved John being on the premises he eventually agreed.

When Friday finally arrived Sherlock found himself stuck at Bart's with a very fascinating uterus and he texted John to say as much. He got no response but he expected that this only meant that John was busy setting up whatevr dinner and film extravaganza he had his eyes on and which Sherlock was going to have to suffer through later that evening. Sherlock really did not get why he liked these things so much.

When Sherlock arrived home at a quarter to eight he found the flat empty. There was a note on the table saying 'I have gone out, food in the fridge, I'll see you tomorrow… eat.' And Sherlock found it slightly annoying. John had been the one to insist that they do this silly movie night tonight of all nights and then he just disappeared.

Sherlock was not hungry but he hesitantly made an effort to make his own tea because he really wanted some. In the fridge he found a neat selection of Chinese food in untouched boxes. It was strange for John to order food and then not eat any of it. Still the selection pleased Sherlock. For some reason it was exactly the same dishes he had mad John order after their first case with the cabbie ended. It was not John's favourites or Sherlock's but the dishes that Sherlock had known that their local Chinese was best known for and that he had thus ordered on that night in question.

Sherlock heated up a plate and was strangely comforted by the smell. He sat on the sofa wondering where John might be when Mrs Hudson came up with a small bundle of envelopes and a large and very glossy parcel.

'Oh I thought you might be celebrating. I'm glad I'm not interrupting. I'll just leave his present here.' Mrs Hudson mumbled under her breath. Sherlock looked at her in confusion for a moment before the bright cards and the present started to make a twisted kind of sense in his mind.

'What do you mean Mrs Hudson?' He asked calmly even thought there was an unpleasant coil of worms twisting in his guts at that point, telling him that there really was something he had forgotten.

'Please tell me he invited you to his birthday party, or drinks, or dinner or whatever.' Mrs Hudson looked worried, angry with John rather than Sherlock and as uncomfortable as he was he did not have the guts to correct her.

'Go away. I'm tired.' He snapped at the old woman who bustled away with entirely the wrong idea and a desire to give John a good dose of her wrath.

Sherlock swallowed hard feeling his own inadequacy. He wondered what he should have done, what he had missed. A dinner certainly, a present most likely and the effort, entirely wasted effort admittedly that John had gone through for his own birthdays a few months earlier flitted through his mind no matter how much he had hated it at the time.

Sherlock was not the most socially adept of men but he knew he had screwed up. He knew that something had been expected of him. Maybe not miracles but certainly the ability to remember his best friend's birthday without the aid of his landlady.

Instead he buried his head in the sand. Terrified of the damage he had done to their friendship and how patently stupid he had clearly been hi buried his head in his pillows and dozed until the time was just past five in the morning and he burst out into the early morning air to search for advice.


	3. John overcompensating

**John overcompensating**

Sherlock was prepared this time. He had been reading up. There were only two days left for his birthday and he was nervous in a way he had not been since he was a child. Two days after the disastrous party last year he had met Molly and she had put him to rights in a very forceful way.

He has done everything in his power to make you happy and you slapped him in the face.' She argued as Sherlock asked her hesitantly the week after why John had organized the party which had all gone so very badly.

Sherlock felt stupid, angry and confused but when he expressed this in frustrated tones Molly looked ready to knock him seven ways sideways. 'I don' like any of the things he had gotten so why bother?' Sherlock moaned and Molly glared at him.

'Have you ever told him that? Have you ever told him what you do like?' She asked

'Well, he can't deduce you like you do him. You have to tell him things.' she said slowly and though Sherlock didn't respond he kept Mollies words in mind and resolved to tell John what he liked before the year was over.

Therefore by the next time his birthday rolled around he was prepared. His best suit and favourite shirt were dry cleaned and he bustled out of the flat by lunch time wearing them sending John a happy text saying he would be back by six.

By six he was utterly bored but also quite ready to make a show of it. In the process of analysing data on normal birthday traditions he had come to rather like some of them. It did actually sound quite nice to be treated to all the things one liked most by people genuinely wanting to express their liking of ones own person and well, presents, provided they were nice and useful, were always a pleasant way of acquiring things.

When he turned up at the flat he was initially impressed at how well John had managed to hide the presence of people in the flat. The previous year it had been glaringly obvious that there were a lot of strange people milling about upstairs. Then he entered the flat and found it empty. There were no decorations, no food, no people, just the flat looking exactly as it had when he had left with the exception of a post it note on the kitchen table.

'I've gone out. Left you something in the fridge.' It read and even though he knew that John was not going to leap out of the fridge, birthday cake in hand it peaked Sherlock's interest and he sauntered over to the fridge and opened it. It was rather empty, some wilting lettuce, one pint left of a two pint bottle of milk, a jar of pickle, some rather mouldy chees, but there on the middle shelf there were two neatly labelled Tupperware containers. A large one reading, in John's neat handwriting 'necrotic liver, male 58' and a smaller one reading 'healthy heart, male 27'.

Sherlock's fingers itched to start an experiment. He had been complaining for weeks about the impossibility of acquiring a healthy human heart, they all went to organ donation. Still if there was going to be a party he better not set anything up. Despite John's absence he thought that after all the information he had been feeding John in the past year and with John's taste in birthday present so clearly improved there had to be a party on it's way, so he sat down at the kitchen table waiting and mapping out the experiment he intended to do on the heart in his head.

John arrived home at half eleven expecting to find Sherlock up to his elbows in some nasty experiment. Instead what he found was his flatmate, impeccably dressed, with his hair beatifically tousled and his nails perfectly manicured, sitting at the kitchen table staring into space.

'What are you doing Sherlock?' He asked wondering if he really wanted to know.

'It's my birthday.' Sherlock said by way of explanation even though it really didn't explain anything.

'I know, hence the present in the fridge. I thought you'd have done something horrid to it by now.' John returned.

'I was waiting for the party. There isn't going to be one is there?' Sherlock said with, was that really a hint of disappointment in his voice.

'But last year you hated the party. Why would I arrange another one if it makes you miserable?' John sighed.

'I told you what I wanted, what I like. I just thought. I thought you would. You're usually nice like that.' Sherlock explained or rather didn't explain because it made no sense to John.

'When did you tell me? Because I really have no recollection of that conversation. Was I even in the room?' John asked feeling both a little annoyed and a little guilty at having once again misunderstood what Sherlock wanted for his birthday.

'That night you couldn't decide what you wanted for desert at that overpriced Italian place I told you I like fruitcake.' Sherlock stated seriously and after some frowning and metaphorical scratching of his head John did remember. He had found the statement very strange since there was nothing even resembling fruitcake on the trolley he was trying to pick a dessert from.

'During that case, the one where the kids party had to be abandoned because one of the children found a finger in the sandbox I told you I hate streamers because…' and at that John interrupted because this one he did remember '… because when you were six and forced to go to a neighbours party another kid tried to shove all the streamers down your throat to see if it made you cry. You also said you love balloons because of the many experiments that can be done on them.' John filled in and he felt suddenly sick.

He could fill in other instances of a similar nature. The moments he had written off as Sherlock's insane excentricities. The day he had gone shopping and had received a text from Sherlock informing him that he liked crisps made of rootvegetables. He had wondered if such a thing even existed and had ignored the text and bought the kind he had already placed in the bag, Sherlock never ate more than a few of them anyway and if he wanted something stupidly pretentious he could get it himself.

The time they had invaded Mycroft's lair, also known as the Diogenese club and Sherlock had proceeded to steal all the egg and watercress sandwiches from the tea tray on their way out saying that if there had to be finger food it was the only thing that should be served.

That statement had actually been negated on that one rare occasion when Sherlock had joined John to do the shopping. He had been infuriating and fidgety and had stuffed a stupidly expensive tray of salmon pinwheels in the trolley saying 'love these' at which John had held back his tirade about how they didn't need stupidly expensive snacks, what they needed was proper food. If Sherlock was going to eat them he better not complain about it, better those than nothing.

Then there had been the Christmas party which John had arranged and after which Sherlock had actually smiled at him and said that if there were to be parties they should all be held in the late evening, that way you could be sure that the guests did not out stay their welcome.

John was sure there must have been other moments like this that he just didn't remember and he groaned inwardly. Sherlock had spent a whole year telling him what he wanted for his birthday and it had all gone over his head because he had been upset at how badly received his previous effort had been and determined from that day to not ever make an effort at a party for Sherlock again.

'I'm sorry Sherlock. I've been an idiot.' He said sitting down across from his friend. 'Can make it up to you?'

Sherlock still looks a little upset but he perks up at that offer. 'Will you make me tea and let me borrow one of your scalpels for the heart?' he asks and then as an afterthought he adds 'How did you get that by the way?'

John smiles and gets up to make the tea. 'I have my ways. It will have to go back to Bart's once you're done with it though. It is just on loan. The guy whom it belongs to wants it with him in the coffin. He didn't mind an autopsy though and I figured an experiment wasn't too much of a leap from an autopsy. The funeral's Tuesday next week so you have until then.' He informs Sherlock of the slight restriction on experiment time.

Sherlock gets the container out of the fridge as well as the milk and goes to get his chemistry equipment out of the box where he had deposited it in anticipation of the party that never happened. Meanwhile John makes tea and vows that next year he will do a better job at listening to what his strange flatmate says, even when it seems totally irrelevant.


	4. Sherlock overcompensating

**Sherlock overcompensates.**

After last year's mishap and his own non birthday party Sherlock was determined that this year he would make things up to John. He set out planning John's birthday a whole month in advance in order to get it right.

He knew that to organise it all without John finding out and without getting something horrifically wrong could prove a challenge. Yet he was fairly certain that he could use the failed party of his own first birthday with John as an inspiration. Surely John had organised that based on what he himself liked since it clearly had not been based on what Sherlock liked.

The food he could deal with closer to the date but he needed to invite people. This should not be a problem since most people they met seemed to like John but it was significantly harder than he had anticipated. John never brought people round to the flat other than the occasional girlfriend. When he saw friends it was always out of the flat and Sherlock had not bothered to ask him about them or even what their names were.

In the end it was Sarah who came up with the solution. Sherlock had decided to start by inviting Mike and Sarah since he did at least know their names. They were both excited by the idea and on hearing about Sherlock's trouble with finding John's friends Sarah offered her assistance. She could do the invites if he sorted the party out she promised which he happily agreed to. One problem less to worry about.

A week later she called him and informed him that she had got hold of and photocopied John's address book during a lunch break and that Sherlock could expect twenty-seven guest herself included. Sherlock gaped a little at the sheer number of people who had chosen to come but he figured that seeing as John had gone to the trouble of inviting people to his own party whom Sherlock didn't even remember the name of he would probably like a lot of guests.

Guests taken care of Sherlock turned his attention to a suitable present. It should probably be two presents really since he had missed it completely the year before. The problem this time is that John isn't exactly a man of many possessions. John likes his computer and his phone but he has those already. He likes thick jumpers and books with stories that do not appeal to Sherlock but beyond that Sherlock draws a blank.

After a week of restless fretting which turns out to annoy John, especially since Sherlock refuses to explain why he is pacing and grumbling he settles for he relatively simple solution of an upgrade. If he can't come up with something new and exciting to get John he will get him a better version of something he knows that John likes. It is with a certain level of satisfaction he returns home to the flat with a new hand knit sweater from Ralph Lauren, not imaginative but at least good quality, and the infinitely more satisfying purchase of a signed first edition of _For Whom the Bell Tolls_, a book which he has seen John reading a rather dog-eared paperback of on no less than two separate occasions.

Purchasing the food and decorations gives him rather less pleasure than the presents had. He would like to get something nice but the stuff John had gotten for his party had been fairly horrendous. In the end he goes for a compromise. He manages a fairly good duplicate of the spread John had presented but he gets it delivered from Waitrose rather than the Tesco round the corner. Only marginally better but bearable. Mrs Hudson is thrilled to make the cake so he doesn't have to worry about that. He doesn't get streamers, there are limits to what he is willing to do and the things still make him cringe. But he does get an assortment of balloons and a tank of helium.

Getting John out of the flat to set up is no problem. Mike takes him out for luch and John expecting a repeat of the previous year is pleased to have the day acknowledged by one of his friends. This year he hasn't even suggested that he and Sherlock do something together.

Sarah comes to help him set up which he is not entirely happy about, she has entirely too many opinions about where things should go and what she thinks John will like. Still she did sort out the guest conundrum so he allows her to help and by three o'clock the flat is fully decked out and brimming with people, some of whom Sherlock recognises and some of whom he doesn't but can quickly deduce.

There are a few guests whom he rather objects to but since he had handed that whole area of he even over to Sarah he can hardly complain at this stage. There are entirely too may ex girlfriends in one room at the same time but so far there are only two who seem to be eyeing the others with less than kindness. For some reason Sarah has seen fit to invite both John's sister and the sister's ex wife and they are currently working hard to position themselves at opposite ends of the flat. Still it is the presence of Sally Donovan that really annoys Sherlock. She can be quite nice to John but the way she gets under Sherlock's skin is making it hard to focus on the more important task of ensuring that the party goes well. John's colleagues from the clinic are fine, as are the few blokes from John's military career and two old college friends, and Lestrade's prescence is a relief as he is there to keep tabs on Sally.

When Mike arrives with John the party is already in full swing and the pleased look on John's face makes all the effort worth while. It might even be worth putting up with Sally to see John look so pleasantly surprised.

And for hours the pleasant atmosphere builds. The horrid food goes down well, John laughs and talks and everyone is very pleasantly impressed by Sherlock's presents which to his pleasure outdo everyone else's. That had after all been the point.

It is already past seven o'clock when the first signs of something being awry appear. Harry and Clara have stopped skirting the fringes of the room at opposite ends and are now having a quiet argument in the hallway. John keeps throwing them worried glances. It has been evident for some time that Harry has gone back to drinking and she has been getting increasingly inebriated as the afternoon has worn on. At one point John tried to talk to her, asking her to slow down but it had no effect.

The atmosphere in the rest of the flat is still good but a few of the guests start glancing over with concern as the voices pick up gradually until John finally walks off to interrupt them. The fight is making Sherlock grumpy, it is marring what he thought had been a great success and seeing the look on John's face turn from joy to concern is highly frustrating. After a couple of minutes Clara returns to the party to gather her things and the bathroom door slams down the hall where John has dragged his sister off to talk some sense into her.

Clara doesn't even say goodbye to the other guests, she just walks out and disappears down the stairs. Sherlock rather wishes she had taken Harry with her. That feeling is rather increased when he can hear her muffled shouting even over the music. He vaguely thinks he ca make out the words 'let go of me.' And 'Don't touch me.' Being yelled in a high pitched female voice and he exchanges a concerned look with Lestrade. They both move toward the bathroom and Sherlock tries the handle. It isn't locked.

For a second he just gapes at the scene before him. The two siblings are facing each other in the middle of the bathroom. John has Harry's wrists tightly wrapped in his hands holding her in place which prevents him from dealing with the crimson river flowing from his nose and staining his shirt front. Harry is shouting abuse at the top of her lungs, tears streaming down her face as though she was the one hurt. John's voice is low and muffled by his injured nose as he pleads with his sister. 'Harry don't, please just don't.' he begs.

'Christ…' he hears Lestrade gasp from behind him and the DI pushes past him into the bathroom where he wrenches Harry away from John. 'Harriet Watson, I'm arresting you…'

'No!' John yells, his voice raised for the first time. 'Don't arrest her, just get her out of here.' He begs in a lower voice and Lestrade nods leading a rather stunned Harry out of the bathroom. The intrusion has made her fall silent and neither she, nor John says anything more as Lestrade leads her out of the bathroom.

Once left alone John sinks down on the bathtub and grabs a towel to stop the blood flowing from his nose. Sherlock crouches in front of him utterly horrified at the way the party has derailed.

'What can I do?' he asks hesitantly touching John's knee.

'Send everyone home please. Except for Sarah, I might need her. I think she broke my nose.' John mumbles from behind his towel, eyes closed as he tries to compose himself.

Sherlock swirls into action immediately. Lestrade and Sally are already gone, having gone to get Harry a safe place to sleep off her drunken stupor but everyone else stares at Sherlock as he appears with blood-stained hands to shut down the music and order them all out of the flat.

'Sarah, bathroom now.' He orders and she disappears behind him as he works to empty the flat of all of John's annoyingly curious friends. None of them seem to want to leave, they're all asking questions and expecting him to tell them what is going on and if everyone is okay and he really doesn't feel like answering them.

When he can finally return to the bathroom he finds John sat on the floor with his head between his knees. Sarah has her arms wrapped protectively around him and is rubbing slow circles across his back.

'What happened, should I call an ambulance?' Sherlock asked, for once relieved at Sarah's presence.

'I don't think that's necessary. I doubt he has a concussion and his nose has stopped bleeding. I think he just had a bit of a panick attack.' She explains.

'Did not.' Came John's shaky voice from between his knees.

'Now John, it's nothing to be ashamed of.' Sarah shushed him as Sherlock watched not knowing what to do.

John lifted his head slowly wiping at his face with the bloody towel removing tears but replacing them with red smudges. 'Flashback, not panic attack. I know the difference.' He said with a sigh looking absolutely exhausted.

'Ah…' Sarah said sympathetically 'the war. I'm sorry.'

'No.' Sherlock said hesitantly and both John and Sarah turned to look at him. 'Not the war. Your sister. She's done this before.' He commented and the shiver that ran down John's back was all the confirmation he needed. No wonder John didn't get along with his sister.

'Sherlock stop deducing me and get me some ice, my face is killing me.' John complained as he pulled away from Sarah and stood on shaky legs.

'I'll do that, you let Sherlock help you to bed.' Sarah said and slipped past Sherlock.

'I can walk by myself.' John argued but he still let Sherlock wrap and arm lightly around his back as they made their way up the stairs. Removing his shirt and trousers but keeping the t-shirt on he slipped thankfully into bed as Sarah arrived with ice and paracetamol.

'I'm sorry I invited her.' Sarah said sadly as she handed him the pills.

'Not your fault.' John reassured her but Sherlock still gave her a stern glare.

'I'll come back and have a look at your nose once the swelling is down. Feel better John.' She promised and with a nod to Sherlock she left them alone.

Sherlock was about to follow her downstairs and leave John to rest when John removed the bag of ice from his face and looked up at his flatmate. 'No more parties Sherlock. Can we agree on that?' he asked.

'No more parties.' Sherlock agreed and slipped out the door.

He meant to clean but there was too much on his mind and he ended up sitting on the sofa staring at a bowl of crisps for an hour before he returned up to John's bedroom to find his friend asleep. He took the melting ice bag out of John's hand meaning to take it back downstairs but when he felt how cold the fingers were from clutching the ice he set it down on the floor instead and wrapped John's fingers between his own to warm them.

Sitting down on the side of the bed he sighed in defeat. ' I'm sorry too.' He said to his sleeping flat mate knowing he would never say it if he was awake. 'I'm sorry about your sister, and I'm sorry about the party. Next year I'll ask you what you want to do.'


	5. John getting it right

They were sitting in their chairs minding their own business when John decided to broach the subject.

'So what do you want to do for your birthday?' he asks point blank. No point in skirting around it.

'Doesn't really matter. There is little point in celebrating the passing of time. It happens every day, we don't need to make a song and dance about it.' Sherlock responds over the top of his laptop.

John frowns 'Sherlock, last year I ignored it and you spent the whole evening sitting alone in the kitchen looking miserable, I'm pretty sure you care what we do.' He argues with steel in his eyes.

'I was just bored.' Sherlock attempts still staring at the computer screen.

'Sherlock you had the fridge filled with the two things you had been complaining about not being able to get for experiments, you should have been stupidly busy. You said you were waiting for a party, you wanted to be celebrated.'

'No.'

'Yes.'

'No'

'Well what then? Why were you sitting around looking like I'd killed your cat rather than delivered to you what you had been requesting for weeks.' John huffed, a little bit annoyed but also a little bit curious how Sherlock was going to argue his way out of this one and still come out looking unemotional.

'Molly.' Sherlock stated and John's eyebrows shot up.

'You were waiting for Molly, I thought you didn't care two hoots for her.' He was genuinely intrigued now.

'I don't. She said that arranging parties was what people did when they cared. She said you cared and I should let you.' Sherlock sounded unusually unsure of himself.

'So you were sitting there waiting for a party for my sake?' John questioned but was met with only silence. A silence which grew increasingly oppressive. 'Or because you wanted me to care?' Still no response but Sherlock was plucking absentmindedly at the trousers on his knee, wrinkling the material instead of focusing on the computer as before.

'Sherlock I do care. Do you know anyone else who would willingly fill their fridge with bodyparts for your pleasure.' He questioned with a fond smile on his face.

'No. Can we do that again.' Sherlock questioned staring pointedly at the computer screen.

'The body parts or the caring?' John asked with a chuckle.

'Both.' Came Sherlock's curt reply.

A grin had spread across John's face by now. 'Ok, so what body parts are you hoping for santa to bring you this year and what do you want me to do to show that I care… other than bring the body parts.' He asks.

'Uhm… lungs John… from a smoker at least forty years old and smoking since his teens but no cancer, cancer will ruin the experiment, and tea… no going out with Mike… and if I solve the case will you make lasagne… that would be nice.' Sherlock lists his requests.

John just stares at him in disbelief… 'So you're saying that you spent a whole year trying to coax me into making a party bearable for you when you could just have said 'It's my birthday next week, will you stay in and let me do my experiment while you cook me dinner?'' John asks.

'Yes.' Comes the very pragmatic reply from behind the computer.

'You're an idiot Sherlock.' John chuckles 'but I'll try to get you the lungs. I can't promise anything, I don't decide who dies but it is a much easier request than the heart from last year so I'll do my best. Oh and I can promise lasagne, that is easy. Should I be getting balloons and salmon pin wheels as well?' he asks trying to sound serious but the supressed giggles making it entirely ridiculous.

'No, not if there are lungs, and lasagne, and tea John, don't forget the tea, and the not going out, that is important.'

John smiles fondly. Normally Sherlock's desire to have him constantly pander to his every need can be very infuriating, however at this time it is endearing. Of all the things Sherlock might want for his birthday John had not expected it to be himself playing Jeeves for a day. But if that is what Sherlock wants that is what he will get.

In the end John does manage to get the lungs but only with some difficulty, they have to be couriered over from Wales and it costs a fortune but somehow it seems worth it. He is full of anticipation as he labels the enormous Tupperware container with 'Lungs, female 52, smoker, died of heart attack.' And stick them in the fridge. There are also onions, mince meat, cheese and all the other ingredients for lasagne jostling for space above the lungs and in the cupboard above the counter three bags of root vegetable crisps. They had turned out to be absolutely real but they came in very small bags. John smiles to himself but he goes to bed with slight trepidation. After all the past two years have taught him that birthdays are a dangerous thing.

He needn't have worried though. When he gets up Sherlock is already set up in the kitchen with slices of the right lung in various beakers across the table, including rather disturbingly one of their mugs but John decides that seeing as it is Sherlock's birthday and he is trying to be nice he will not mention it.

'Happy birthday. You ok. Is the lungs what you wanted?' He asks instead and is rewarded with a pleased grin from a very concentrated Sherlock who is dripping something out of a pipette onto one of the slices of lung.

'Very good John. You said there'd be tea.' He demands in his usual unceremonious way and it is with fondness that John goes to make tea for them both and toast for his own breakfast. There is no point in making breakfast for Sherlock when he is this occupied but John empties one of the bags of crisps he had bought into a bowl and by lunchtime they are gone.

By six o'clock Sherlock has eaten two bags of root vegetable crisps and John has made an awful lot of cups of tea between reading a nice novel and two medical articles just to make himself feel useful but he realises that if he is going to do the lasagne any justice he really needs to start soon.

'Sherlock, do you think you are going to solve the case? Do you want me to make dinner? Because if you do I really need to start soon.' He questions and Sherlock bounds from his chair.

'I solved it hours ago, I've already texted Lestrade.' Sherlock beams as he bounds from his chair in the kitchen. 'Can I keep the lungs though or do these need to go back as well?' he asks with the slightest hint of a pout.

'No, you can keep these. They're all yours.' John informs and Sherlock looks inordinately pleased.

'Then the kitchen is all yours.' He says and moves over to the window picking up his violin.

John cooks dinner to the sound of random snippets of music from Sherlock at the window. Some of them he recognises and others he doesn't but they are all surprisingly upbeat for Sherlock.

They eat dinner by the light of a Bunsen burner something that should probably be disturbing but somehow isn't and when John finally goes to bed it is with the pleasant image of his flatmate, curled up on the sofa, not with a scowl and hard words pouring from his mouth as he has become accustomed to, but rather with a pleased grin and a very unexpected 'thank you John.' tumbling from his smiling lips.


	6. Sherlock getting it right

Sherlock was nervous. He hated to admit it, but he was. He did not have a good track record when it came to birthdays. Never mind that memories of perfectly aged lungs, the buzz of solving a confusing case and John in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, making Sherlock taste every ingredient before finally stuffing the lasagne into the oven, still made him smile.

There was no way, absolutely no way that he was going to be able to give John a birthday to equal his own. Images of John's bruised face after last year's attempt still haunted him. It had taken six months before John read one of Harriet's repeated e-mails and the two since then had left him with a trembling hand and vacant look which should make Sherlock feel angry with Harry but actually made him feel in equal parts guilty.

Still he had learnt from his mistakes and from John's success and two weeks before John's birthday he pushed the man down into his chair and asked the obvious question. 'What do you want to do for your birthday?'

John smiled up at him in that way that left Sherlock frustratingly unsure of what his flatmate was thinking. 'Hm, I don't know.' John said thoughtfully and then very quickly added 'No party though, no guests and absolutely no relatives.' John chuckled slightly and Sherlock wanted to join in but he couldn't not when images of a pale John, curled up on the floor with a bloody shirt and eyes haunted by childhood sibling abuse flitted before his eyes. He swiftly shook those images out of his mind focusing instead on the task at hand.

'Yes I know what you don't want… now tell me what you _do_ want.' He said in a tone that belied his concern.

'I honestly don't know. I haven't really celebrated my birthday since I was ten.' John admitted. 'I think that's why I was so overenthusiastic about celebrating yours. Making up for lost time or something'

'So does that mean you want a party? Because we don't have a good track record with those.' Sherlock asked hesitantly.

'I just said, no party… remember.' John smiled. 'Dinner, cake, maybe a balloon or two… I won't make you suffer through any streamers.' He said with a grin on his face.

'Ok, I can do that. Dinner, cake and balloons but what do we actually do? I mean for my birthday there were experiments; I assume you don't want those.'

'No. No experiments. I'll be working all day so it's really only the evening so maybe we could rent a movie, just stay in and hang out.' John said and Sherlock nodded seriously.

'How is that any different from most nights?' he asks at which John chuckles.

'I guess it's not really, except there will be cake and you actually have to watch the movie with me.' John stipulates his demands. 'Oh and don't get me anything ridiculously expensive like last year. I don't even want to know how much you paid for that book.

On the day in question John wakes up to the smell of tea and toast which is surprising since Sherlock never eats breakfast unless John literally forces it down his throat. Then there is a knock on the door and Sherlock enters with a tray. It has toast with jam, a cut up apple, tea and orange juice on it and even an actual live tulip in a vase.

'Sherlock watch out, this is a very strangely romantic gesture, I might be starting to get ideas.' John says as he scoots up and settles in bed with the tray on his lap.

'But you make me breakfast in bed.' Sherlock argues.

'Only when you're sick and only because you refuse to get up and eat at the table. And I don't give you flowers.'

'You don't like it. I thought, because you do that and I thought it was a nice thing to do. Safer than a party.' Sherlock says with disappointment in his voice.

'I do like it. Just watch who you do this for, most people would see it as a romantic overture.' John instructs as he tucks into his toast.

'Who else would I do it for? I only live with you.' Sherlock asks bemused and John smiles. Maybe this year they will manage a non-disastrous birthday.

Work was nothing much different than usual but at lunchtime Sarah came into the lunchroom with a cupcake with a candle on which was quite thoughtful of her as they were no longer dating. She asked what he was doing to celebrate and he told her that quite honestly after last year's debacle Sherlock and he were just going to stay in and watch telly. Sarah looked a little guilty at that, knowing that she had played a part in the derailing of the party the previous year with her flawed invitation skills. John however just smiled at her and reassured her that it was exactly what he wanted and added a thank you for the cupcake.

By the end of the workday he was tired but not unhappy. He looked forward to a quiet evening in with Sherlock even if there was the tiniest hint of apprehension in his mind.

He was right to be apprehensive. When the phone rung it was not Sherlock asking what he wanted for dinner, it was his sister. They had not spoken all year. There had been perfunctory e-mails and a sort of resolution that they had moved past the events of John's previous birthday but John had not actually heard her voice all year. She had phoned twice but he had ignored the calls.

'Hello Harry.' He answered hesitantly, only because a year seemed long enough to be angry over a broken nose.

'Happy Birthday John.' Harry responded and John tried to listen to hear if she was sober or not.

'I take it I wasn't invited this year.' She continued and John decided that no, she was not sober.

'Can you blame me?' John asked gritting his teeth 'I looked like I had been in a boxing match with Mike Tyson for weeks.' He continued but immediately regretted it as he heard the angry hiss on the other end of the line. 'Let's not argue Harry.' He added quickly but it was too late.

'You started it. You didn't have to go between me and Clara and you didn't have to bring it up now.' Harry was shouting slightly into the phone.

'And if I hadn't, would it have been Clara with a broken nose instead?' He asked slowly. He didn't want to antagonise his sister but he was angry.

'Fuck you, I would never hit Clara.' Harry spat.

John seriously doubted the veracity of that statement but even so a thick lump formed at the back of his throat. 'So it's just me then. I'm the only one you enjoy hurting.' The anger had gone out of his voice and it sounded frustratingly broken in his own ears. He didn't wait for a reply. He couldn't talk to Harry any longer. He felt like a damn child again and if he didn't get away from her soon he would either start to shout or to cry either of which would be more than a little embarrassing. He doesn't even bother to say goodbye. He just hangs up and when the phone rings again he does not answer.

He stalks the remaining blocks back to Bakerstreet with firm steps, the phone clasped angrily in his hand in an attempt to stop it from trembling. He can feel his leg twinge every time he puts weight on it and he curses his mind for doing these things to him. How did Harry manage to ruin another birthday when she wasn't even there.

John doesn't even make it to the top of the stairs before Sherlock opens the door with a frown on his face. 'What's wrong?' he asks looking down at John.

'Harry.' Is the only explanation John gives as he pushes up the last few steps with a frustrated wince.

He brushes past Sherlock in a huff but stops in his tracks as he enters the living room.

There are balloons everywhere, great clusters of them floating around the room and above the fireplace a banner with the text 'Happy Birthday' in bright letters, much like the one he had deemed to cheesy for Sherlock's party.

Sherlock brushes up behind him, pries the phone from his hand and slips his jacket off. Then he guides John over to his chair and crouches in front of him. 'Forget about her. Just relax. Does it hurt?' he asks as he gently rubs John's leg above the knee.

John sighs and actually cracks a smile, the anger draining from him. 'It'll be fine in a minute, but you're doing it again.' He grins at Sherlock who looks confused.

'I'm doing what?' Sherlock asks as he continues to rub circles into John's aching limb.

'Being all kind and concerned, and ever so slightly romantic. It's not very Sherlock.' John explains and then adds 'Is that for me?' Indicating the steaming cup of tea on the side table.

'Of course.' Sherlock says and lets got of John, retreating to his own chair. 'When other people do those things you speak of them as though they're good things. Do you not want me to?' he asks, eyes flitting with just the tiniest hint of nervousness to a large box on the coffee table.

'No Sherlock it's good, just unusual. Maybe you're learning.' John smiles at him and then adds 'So is there going to be takeaway after the tea?'

'Mmh, I had a good teacher.' Sherlock hums as he gets up and crosses to pick up the box. He sets it down gently on the floor in front of John and hands him a bunch of takeaway menus. John doesn't even look at them, just hands them back to Sherlock.

'Surprise me, deduce what I'll like, I think I trust you today.' John says and sips his tea before leaning forward and looking with suspicion at the box. 'Although I may come to regret that if something alive and potentially lethal is going to jump out at me when I open this.' He finishes as he puts the tea aside and lean forward undoing the bow.

A card is released and John picks it up. Slipping it out of it's envelope he finds it unfolds into a string of photographs. Pictures of John at crime scenes looking happy or concentrated or in one case frustrated. The last is of the both of them, heads tilted towards each other, clearly laughing, he wonders who might have taken it. The front reads 'To the world's only consulting blogger/doctor/soldier/friend, Happy Birthday'.

'Did you make this?' he asks incredulous but Sherlock shakes his head.

'Had it commissioned.' He confesses but it does not stop a huge grin from spreading across John's face.

'It's great, I love it.' He says and places the card carefully on the table beside him. The box is large and fairly heavy and instead of lifting it into his lap John leans forward and pulls the lid off peering in. He gasps slightly at the display before him. 'Sherlock we said not expensive.' He scolds as he starts to rummage through the box which is filled with a small library of DVDs. It is heavy on action and comedy but there are other things as well, a few historical dramas, a couple of documentaries and even three romantic comedies which John really wonders if Sherlock has added in by mistake because surely he has no intention of sitting through those with John.

'They are all second hand, mostly from charity shops. I thought you'd like that, and it means you can't hand them back.' Sherlock says with a smug grin and John begins to laugh.

'You, Sherlock Holmes are incorrigible, but I love it.' He huffs between giggles and in the soft light of the flat Sherlock can tell that his eyes are sparkling, all frustration from the argument with his sister wiped away.

Four hours later Sherlock is watching John fall asleep in his chair a satisfied grin on his face. They have gone through two films, first V for Vendetta which rather frustrated Sherlock because John would not let him pick apart all the inconsistencies in it and then Clockwise which Sherlock did not really watch because he was more interested in watching John chuckle between mouthfuls of cake and repeating how brilliant John Cleese was. It was rather reminiscent of how John would speak of Sherlock at crime scenes but it did not make him jealous.

He takes the diner plates into the kitchen and dump them in the sink. For a second he contemplates doing the dishes but really there are limits and instead he wanders into the livingroom and picks up his violin, playing softly as he looks out the window at the late night traffic. He is feeling rather smug. Somehow he seems to have been able to pull it off this time and it makes him feel a little giddy, as though he has just solved a rather complicated case.


End file.
